Cato's Past
by Thornapple
Summary: He was brought up to believe that glory for his district was more important than common sense.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or its characters, Suzanne Collins does.**

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><p>THREE YEARS OF AGE: Potatoes<p>

I am handed my first weapon, a thick wooden stick about twelve inches long and as thick as my wrist. It's the most lethal thing I own at the age of three. The athletic-looking man presses it into my hands and tells me to mash a basket of potatoes to pulp. And so, I proceed with my assault.

I whack as hard as I can, smashing, squashing, and even taking them out one by one and stomping on them. Then the man descends on me and tells me to use only the stick and my hands.

I do as he says. I take out one potato, position it carefully and bring my stick down as hard as I can. Nothing happens, except for the potato rolling away.

It looks ugly and knobbly in the sunlight. I toddle over and whack it again. It remains intact, but this time stays put. I hit it again.

Nothing happens.

Frustration wells up in my chest and bursts out in a growl of anger. I hold the potato still with my left hand. With my right, I clutch the stick with the end pointing downwards. With force, I drive the base of the stick into the tuber, slowly, deliberately; making sure the stick impales the offending thing properly.

With vicious satisfaction, I see that the potato now has the stick driven deep into its middle. I yank the stick out. A deep, large crater has been formed.

The man walks over, peering at my handiwork. "Very good," he says, smiling. "Now you finish up this little bugger and there's the rest of the basket left, all for you." He saunters away, marking a huge tick on his clipboard.

I look at the rest of the potatoes. Then I look down at the damaged one.

It's a big basket.

-:-

SEVEN YEARS OF AGE: Glory

My father is at work today. I don't know what he does, but my mother says it's an important job. I believe her.

I'm big for my age. None of my classmates come up to my nose. It's funny how I have classes in the morning till two in the afternoon, then training from four to eight in the evening. Not everyone has training. It makes my arms sore and my back hurt. But it will be worth it, my teachers all say, because one day I could compete in the Hunger Games and win, bringing glory to the district.

This is repeated often. And I do want to compete someday; glory sounds nice. Nicer than potatoes, which I've hated since that day I was made to mash them up.

One day, a classmate asks me during lunch, "What is glory?"

I'm stumped. But I reply, "What do you think it is?"

She frowns at me. "I wouldn't ask if I knew, would I? The only glory I know is the morning glory, and that doesn't sound right."

I don't know what that is either. But I say scornfully, "You're stupid, aren't you? Fancy not knowing what glory is. Hasn't the school taught you anything? Stupid!"

Her eyes narrow and she turns away, finishing her lunch in silence. I smile triumphantly, having avoided a display of ignorance.

The next day, I find an upended, cheap, plastic cup on my desk in the classroom. I lift up the cup and find a beautiful, blue flower inside, resting on a scrap of paper. Scrawled on the paper are the words:

_This is a morning glory, stupid. And return the cup or else I'll tell everyone that Cato Gronson doesn't know the meaning of glory._

I scowl and hide the flower and paper in the cup before anyone sees them. Not that they would dare to laugh.

After dismissal, I look around for the girl and find her hurrying out of the courtyard with a shabby bag slung over her shoulders.

Feeling distinctly annoyed, I run up to her and shout, "Oi! Wait a minute."

She stops, her face tight with impatience.

"Your cup," I say rudely, shoving it under her nose.

She takes it silently and stows it in her bag. Then, "I've found out the meaning of glory."

I can't help but ask what it is.

A scowl crosses her face. "I'll tell you tomorrow," she says. "I'm a bit short of time today."

Then she's off, running at full speed before I can comprehend what she said.

But she did keep her promise and gave me the full definition of the word the next day. It's long and complicated, full of words I have never heard of before. I don't ask how she knows.

I find her less annoying and stupid than she originally seemed, and she eventually tells me that I'm not that bad either. One way or another, we became friends. Grudgingly, perhaps. Slowly, definitely.

But we got there.

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><p><strong>AN: I read the Hunger Games series last year and watched the movie last week; it was amazing! The movie missed out some stuff, but that's what movies usually do anyway, so oh well. It was pretty decent, as adaptations go.  
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**Cato had that bit of dialogue before he was killed, which I thought made him seem more sympathetic, so I was thinking about his background and how he became such a ruthless killer. I don't know if there's any other story which this is similar to, so if there is, please inform me. **

**Please review :)  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to dadeedoo for reviewing :)**

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><p>THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Tesserae<p>

Today, my trainer leads me to an open field. Lined up neatly in one row is a group of dummies. He hands me a heavy, wickedly sharp sword.

I have never been more excited in my life. For months now, he has been telling me that I am nearing the right size and ability to handle adult-size weapons. And now, it seems I am ready.

The hilt of the sword is smooth in my sweat-slicked hand and I grip it tighter, trying to recall all the pointers the trainer has given me. The day is warmer than usual, which just makes more sweat bead on my forehead. I stare at the nearest dummy narrowly, sizing it up, paying special attention to its neck. The trainer is standing back, clutching his clipboard and watching detachedly. He is imperturbable. To date, I have not seen him snap once.

My task today is to sever a dummy's head in one clean stroke.

The dummy's face is smooth, but I imagine it to have features; to have eyes, a nose, a mouth open in fear and horror. It could be a tribute, any tribute, an enemy to be butchered in the arena.

With a grunt, I swing the sword with as much force as possible and watch as the blade makes contact with the dummy's neck and passes through it as though nothing is there.

_A loud scream would be appropriate, _I think. _Cut off with a gurgle._

The head falls to the ground with a thud.

_Blood spurting out of the neck._

The blade of the sword gleams in the sunlight.

"Not bad," the trainer says. "But you'll have to control how much force is put into the blow. Don't want it going out of control, do we?" I can tell he's pleased, though.

I smile, triumphant.

-:-

After the trainer dismisses me, I make my way down the worn streets as the sun emanates the warm glow which indicates the approach of sunset.

The house I am looking for is a tiny building situated on the outskirts of the village. It's rickety and paint is peeling off the walls. But it's liveable.

I can hear the steady chopping of the knife on the board as I push open the door. She's busy with dinner; her mother is only released from her duties as a maid in the mayor's house after the washing-up is finished there. Her father is an unknown entity to her.

"Your books are on my bed, you'll find them under the skirts. And they've just been washed, so don't act all squeamish."

I give a start; she's still chopping the potato at a rapid pace and hasn't turned around.

"All right," I say. I go look for them and find them stacked up neatly under a jumble of clothes.

Some pages had fallen out of her school books; they were used items. She then borrowed mine to copy out the missing pages.

I slip into the room where meal preparations and consumption is done. It's not exactly a kitchen, because there isn't a sink and the stove is a tiny portable thing which gives off an air of having been scrubbed once too often.

There are two plates laid out on a wooden table; each has a small piece of bread on them. Grinning, I sneak a hand out to the piece of bread lying on the nearer plate. I don't mean to actually eat it, but it would be fun to see her reaction. My hand inches nearer and nearer to the plate, I'm almost about to grab hold of it…

Out of nowhere, a knife appears and the flat of the blade raps my knuckles sharply. "Keep your hands off that," she says severely.

I wince and rub the injured area. "How'd you see that?" I ask, annoyed.

"Too typical," she sniffs. "I haven't lived through three theft attempts from you and emerged unscathed."

I _had_ managed to pinch the stuff three times before. Never ate it, but it was nice watching her panic.

"You can sit down. That is, if you aren't leaving immediately."

I glare at her, but she ignores me and sweeps the potato cubes into a pot. I'm about to decide to walk out and slam the door when she says, "I took tesserae."

"Why'd you do that?" I ask, surprised.

"Well obviously, there isn't enough food to go around," she snaps.

"But your mother –"

"My mother," she says, "hardly earns enough to feed us both, let alone buy any other items necessary for survival."

I feel a gnawing sense of _something_ in my stomach. I can't quite place it, but it definitely feels uncomfortable.

"Well," I finally say. "At least you'll have a higher chance of getting picked this year."

She doesn't answer. The silence stretches on for so long that I start to suspect – but no, it can't be. It's not possible.

"Yes," she says flatly. "More names in the ball."

The discomfort eases slightly. "Perhaps you'll get chosen this year."

"Hmm."

And that is the end of our conversation.

-:-

SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGE: The Best

I am the best pupil my trainer has ever had, or so he says. It should shock me, as he is a man who rarely gives praises, but it doesn't. I _am_ the best.

I'm the biggest in my class. I can decapitate a person in a matter of seconds, hurl a spear for many metres, kill with just one punch to the right spot, and many other things. Survival skills aren't much of a problem either, though they're not my forte.

Just one more year, before I can volunteer and compete, win, bring glory to the district. There's a girl in my class, Clove, who is also extremely accomplished and similarly hungry for victory. She's handy with knives.

We don't talk to each other much. But it's understood that next year, if we do not get chosen, we will volunteer.

But the girl who asked me for the meaning of glory doesn't like idea of the Hunger Games. After years, I finally realise that she is afraid. And one day, she tells me.

"Glory, honour, victory, blah, blah, blah," she says, flipping a page of her book. "If District Two has as many victors as they say, it's overflowing with glory. Unnecessary for you to add to it."

"We do have many victors," I say angrily. "You just never bothered to count."

"I have better things to worry about," she replies tartly. "Like how to get something decent to eat every day."

"You're just a coward," I say maliciously. "You don't have the guts."

"Absolutely right," she says, without skipping a beat. "I'd prefer to live, thank you very much. Common sense dictates that I won't survive a minute out there in the arena. Perhaps you could, but I'm not you."

I brush away the compliment. "No matter. You won't get picked anyway. Someone will volunteer."

"I'm counting on that," she replies.

I roll my eyes.

"So if I go," I say, "You think I'll win?"

She looks up from her book and meets my gaze coolly. "You've got a chance."

I feel distinctly annoyed. "Just a chance?"

"A better chance than most, at any rate."

My pride is stung, but I don't let it get to me. One makes exceptions for old friends. "Nice of you to think so," I say sarcastically. "Real encouraging."

Now her expression isn't cool or defensive anymore, it's just soft and slightly sad. "If you go to the Capitol –" she begins.

I cut her off. "When, not if."

"Fine! When you go to the Capitol, I do hope you win."

I stare at her appraisingly, then decide she's not being sarcastic. "Thank you. I will."

"Oh do try to rein in your ego," she says, reverting to her cutting tone. "Glory doesn't come by you sitting around and declaring you're the best in everything."

"I am not sitting around!" I declare hotly. "Training every single day, six hours under the hot sun. My trainer says I'm the best anyway." Now my pride really smarts. What does she know about it anyway?

She sighs. "There may be someone who's better out there."

I refuse to think of it that way. "When that someone comes, I'm going to crush him or her."

She surveys at my biceps. "I'd say you've got quite a bit of muscle there."

"Of course," I say, nettled. "You've known me for almost ten years, and you just noticed?"

"I look at your face and not at your arm. How would you feel if I spent most of my time addressing your arm?"

I glower at her, but have nothing to say to that.

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><p><strong>AN: I don't know if Cato is savage enough in this fic... I find it difficult to bring that bit out because the book doesn't say much about him (other than the fact that he's brutal and everything), but I'm sure even savage brutes can't be savage brutes all the time; it'd be kinda tiring, wouldn't it? And I'm sure he's capable of civil speech.**

**I'll try and bring out his fixation with glory the next chapter. Please review :)  
><strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to anon for reviewing :)**

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><p>SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Impudence<p>

It starts when the teacher, a skinny, balding man ceases the screeching of chalk against the board and says, "And who can tell me the formula for limestone?"

Silence abounds.

"I think… Mr Gronson," he says softly. "The formula for limestone?" The chalk is poised, waiting.

I have no idea what it is. Academic prowess is somewhat absent on my list of priorities. But because I am not in the mood to create a scene, I reply confidently, "Ca(OH)2."

He doesn't write, doesn't show any sign of approval or disapproval. His hand is still leaned against the board, holding the chalk.

Then he asks, "Is it soluble in water?"

That one I think I know. "No, it isn't."

"Sir, the formula for limestone is CaCO3."

My head whips around. A weedy-looking boy had answered, correcting me, _correcting me_. The nerve of the shrimp.

"Excellent," the teacher mutters to the board. The chalk zooms in and the screeching resumes, while I fume silently in my chair.

After school, I wait until the shrimp's finished getting ready to leave and half the class has scurried off. The girl, offspring of the mayor's maid, has gone. Only a handful of people are left.

I make my way to the shrimp's battered wooden desk. "Oi, you."

He stiffens. "Yes?" he answers carefully.

My temper's rising; the urge to do something violent is overwhelming at this boy's impudence. But I keep myself in check. For now.

"You corrected me today. Said I was wrong." My voice is brusque.

"But you were, weren't you?" he says quizzically.

Oh, he really is asking for it. "Doesn't matter if I was. But you'll never do it again. Understand?"

"But the lesson can't continue if the answer's wrong. You know the teacher, he's always like that." He seems genuinely perplexed. My hands are clenching and unclenching, my face turning red, and he _still_ doesn't get it.

"_You will never embarrass me in front of the class again, you understand?_" the words barely make it out through my tight jaw.

From the corner of my eye, I see my remaining classmates packing up hastily and walking out. It does nothing to calm me down.

"I see," he says. "It's about that, isn't it?"

He's brave. And stupid.

"Yes," I say viciously. "And I'll leave you with a little something to remember that."

Before he can react to that last sentence, I reach out, grab a fistful of his dry, unhealthy-looking hair and bring his head down on the wooden desk, hard. All my rage is contained in that push, and considerable force is used.

The sound is beautiful.

It hurts like hell; I can hear him whimpering as it stays down on the wood. His hands flail uncertainly, then reach up slowly to caress the sore spot. I feel no sympathy for him.

"Just so you remember," I say.

The rage is lessened as I walk away and leave the pathetic, snivelling know-it-all to his head massage. He's lucky he didn't get worse.

With a smile on my face, I pack up and get ready to leave.

I'm about to walk out of the door when I almost crash into her. It is only avoided by my abrupt halt; she makes no effort to move out of the way.

"You're lucky I'm in a better mood now," I snap at her. "What are you, blind?"

She says nothing. Her eyes are trained on my face, and her expression is far from friendly.

I stare back insolently. "What?"

Her eyes travel slowly from my face to the inside of the room, where the idiot boy is still wincing. While she says nothing, her eyebrows raise impossibly high. The accusation hangs in the air.

I realise that she heard everything and probably saw everything from the door. It's not the first time she's witnessed me hitting someone. A couple of years ago, she'd seen me beating up a boy who'd messed with my then-girlfriend. She hadn't expressed any disapproval then. But she is expressing disapproval now.

But it doesn't matter. If anything, it serves to drive my recklessness up a notch. "He deserved it."

"Did he?"

"Of course," I say angrily. "Now get out of my way." I push past her and take long, furious strides down the hallway.

We don't speak for a long time.

-:-

SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Disagreement.

"Cato…"

"Shut up!" I yell. "Shut your stupid mouth."

"Cato, just because I disagree with you, doesn't mean you have to throw a silly tantrum every time you try and fail to convince me that the Hunger Games are good." She's angry, I can tell, and on her cheeks are two splotches of red.

I don't care. I'm furious, exasperated, and I'll let it show. "You idiot," I snarl. "Don't you know what a great opportunity you missed? Do you know just how much you sacrificed?'

"Those were my sacrifices to make, not yours, and I'd prefer it if you'd stop shouting," she says nastily.

"I don't care about what you prefer," I yell at her. "You got a chance and you passed it up for some wimp who… who…" the anger is choking me up.

"She volunteered," she replies.

"You could have fought for it," I shoot back.

"I didn't want to. It's my life, not yours. Why do you want me to participate in the Games so badly, anyway?"

I sputter. "The glory! The honour! Imagine what your life would be like if you won."

"You sound like one of those big posters which insist on the necessity and goodness of the Games," she says dryly.

"It's true."

"As if," she says sharply. "As if you really care about my glory. You're just bitter that you didn't get chosen and that someone beat you to the volunteering process."

It stings. And there is more truth in it than I like. "You stupid bitch."

"Resorting to petty insults now, are we?" she snaps. "It's not even an issue. Let the volunteer girl go, participate, win, and bring that much-adored _glory_ to the district." I don't like how she stresses the word mockingly.

"I don't care!" I roar. "You got the chance and you passed it up, while others long to be chosen! It's not fair!"

I expect her to retort back with some annoyingly needling statement, but she doesn't. Instead, she looks at me almost pityingly, while my face is red with anger.

"So that's what it is," she says coldly. "You're jealous, envious, sour… and you wouldn't like it anyway if I'd accepted the reaping result, would you? And don't lie – no, it shows on your face! You'd still be seething in a corner like the sore loser that you are."

She continues before I do something drastic. "You and your fixation with glory, it's getting annoying. Is there nothing else you live for?'

I look at her defiantly. "No."

The two splotches of red on her cheeks become redder. "Don't you realise that the people in the Capitol won't even see you as a live player?" she demands. "To them, you'll be like a game piece, to be shifted and prodded and tortured… winning won't make a difference."

I stare at her in disbelief at such sacrilege, but she ploughs on. "But I see you won't ever change your thinking. Pity… you're actually quite decent once you get over those anger issues."

I'm finding it increasingly difficult to hold back my temper. The urge to punch her is getting stronger and stronger. And I am not one to care about the moral high ground. But I say, "You're deluded. You don't know what you're talking about. And it's not as if you know me."

She makes an impatient noise. "Don't even think about trying that one."

"Fine," I snarl back. "I won't. I'll try this."

There's a split second in which she's confused, unsure of what I'm about to do. I see her hands twitch up to defend her face, but before they get there, I clench my hand into a fist and bring it crashing into her jaw.

She's knocked out of her seat, I don't think I broke anything, but I'm sure it really hurts. She holds her jaw tenderly as she lies on the ground, then slowly, deliberately, gets up and faces me.

Her eyes are blazing with anger. I feel no regret, only triumph. She won't dare to attack me. I'd beat her to pulp any day. Then she picks up her threadbare bag, one hand still clutching her jaw, and takes a swing at me with it.

It doesn't work of course; I catch it easily and send it back. But she steps out of the way and holds on to it as it swings back and forth.

She gives up. I can see it in her stance, in the way her shoulders are slumped. But I don't feel in the least bit victorious; there is no point in defeating an opponent who gives up.

"What?" she snaps. I realise that an evil grin is plastered on my face. "You look constipated," she continues. "Stop grimacing."

I remind myself that I'm still furious with her. "You gave up."

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" she retorts. "You called me a stupid bitch and punched me in the face. I know a lost cause when I see one. Besides, you're so deluded that you won't listen to anything I say anyway. So I'll live my own life and you live yours. Just stop getting angry on account of my detesting the Games. I have every reason to."

I feel a slight stirring of anger and unease, but it's considerably lessened compared to a few minutes ago. I have been interfering in her affairs quite a bit, sulking whenever she refuses to discuss the Games.

"Fine," I say acidly. "Whatever you say."

"And don't you dare call me a stupid bitch again, you lousy bastard."

"… Fine."

"Wait a minute, there's something I forgot…"

I'm not looking at her, but at a rock somewhere to her left, so I almost miss the fist that comes flying and by the time I see it, it's already making contact with my stomach. And the pain that comes with it is excruciating.

"You…" I splutter.

And she's off, running, the quarrel probably forgotten. I think.

But deep down, I know it isn't. And won't be for a long time.

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><p><strong>AN: I don't like how this chapter turned out. I think Cato's too controlled, but I'm not sure how to make him more ruthless and violent without turning him into a caricature. And honestly, I would have made the female character a guy, but I haven't had a male classmate in almost four years, so I'm not very sure how they communicate at this age besides grunting and cussing. No offence to guys. But at 12, no one is very matured and since then I've had little interaction with them, so there's little opportunity to study how they behave. So yeah. I'm stuck with a female character.**

**Please review :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much to dadeedoo for reviewing :)**

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><p>EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Cheap thrills<p>

It's five minutes before the end of training, and I am torn between the euphoria which comes with physical exertion and the strong desire to just collapse on a soft bed and sleep. The weather is actually pretty good, but my concentration is shaky today. Even my trainer notices, though he doesn't say much about it.

Finally, training ends and I am free to go. I collect my things and leave.

I stroll down the streets and decide I can afford to buy something to eat before I go home. So I make my way down to the cluster of rundown stalls which sell food of dubious origin, but at a decent price.

I haven't quite decided what to buy, when I see her, chatting with a friend. I walk up to them. The friend shoots me a terrified look and squeaks up a few sentences before making an excuse and bolting.

She shoots me an amused look. "I don't suppose you could look less murderous?" she says.

I smirk back. "It's an advantage," I reply. "And besides, it's not like that friend of yours hasn't seen me before. I'm not that inconspicuous."

"Conspicuous you may be, but whether that's a good or bad thing is highly debatable," she says, her lip curling slightly. But the twinkle in her eyes shows she's joking.

"Nothing short of a miracle," I say.

She snorts.

-:-

I make my purchases and she makes hers. We stroll back to our homes together, discussing the merits of patronising a certain stall when I suddenly remember what I wanted to tell her, but forgot earlier.

"Oh I had a dream last night," I say, the words out of my mouth before I realise how stupid they sound.

She raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a vaguely girly thing you would never be caught dead talking about," she remarks. "Why, was it a nightmare?"

I scowl. "I suppose it would be, considering you were in it."

She looks faintly amused. "Why'd I be in your dream?"

"I don't know," I reply irritably. "But you were a complete headcase in it. I thought you'd gone mad."

"Must've been a reflection of yourself."

I ignore that. "You said something… oh, I can't remember now. Something about creeping tendrils of doubt, I think. Then you told me to break your neck."

She blinks. "What?"

"You heard me."

A slightly disgusted look crosses her face. "I really asked you to break my neck?" she says with distaste.

"Yes, why?"

She stops. I follow suit, staring at her with annoyance. "What?" I snap.

"You're ridiculous." A derisive note has entered her voice. "If I wanted you to _kill_ me, I wouldn't go for that, and you know it."

"No I don't," I say with malice. "But it would be the most efficient way, and there wouldn't be much of a mess."

"Interesting."

I snigger. "You wouldn't last two minutes in a fight. But it'll be interesting seeing how far you get with a rock."

"Shut up," she snaps.

An evil grin spreads across my face. "Why? Scared?"

"Perhaps in your dream," she says in as dignified a manner as she can. "But even you wouldn't be spared the death penalty if you snapped my neck. I'd die knowing I'd drag you down with me."

In response, I bend my head from side to side, hearing all the _crick_ sounds and savouring the look of utter discomfort on her face. Nothing beats the feeling which comes with knowing you've unnerved a person.

"Hmph," she says. "Cheap thrills. Very funny."

"Indeed," I say almost cheerfully. "You look like one of my practice dummies." Some of them have faces now. Faces bearing expressions with varying degrees of terror.

Her expression doesn't change, but her voice sounds a little flat now. "Well, good thing you don't have a sword with you now. Or a spear."

"Oh don't worry," I say in an unconvincing tone which is meant to be reassuring but comes out sounding flippant. "I wouldn't slice you up or anything. Too easy a target."

She glares at me, but I ignore her, knowing I've scored.

-:-

When I get home, I consider the method of killing. It would really be a matter of utmost ease to snap her neck. It's not like a person with that build could put up much of a fight. Not to me.

But would I? If it comes down to both of us being in the arena, of which the probability is low, given the volunteer system, would I do it? It's a tough question, which is better off left at the back of my mind.

It refuses to stay there. _She would understand,_ I argue with myself. _She would be one of the first to die anyway._

But deep down, I know she won't understand. She's one of those people who like their lives and wouldn't want to part with it so easily. So am I, actually.

Would she kill me? I chuckle at the thought. Impossible. Not strong enough.

_Too easy a target, she is. Just one_ snap_..._

But perhaps, would she try? The thought in itself makes me feel uncomfortable, but I don't think she would consider killing me until it came down to just us. I'm fairly sure that ten years of friendship would hinder her conscience. Maybe mine too. _Mine?_

And she probably wouldn't last that long anyway. Not in the Hunger Games.

A squirming discomfort surfaces in my stomach, and I push the thought away. After all, I reason with myself, such a situation would never occur anyway.

Never.

I lie on my bed and oblivion claims me in less than five minutes.

-:-

EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Temper

"Oh for goodness' sake, do you never clean your hands?"

We're in my house, and she's helping me do some of my work while I help her with some of hers. Actually, there's more grime on her paper than ink, due to the fact that my hands are absolutely filthy.

"I like my paper clean, thank you very much, and not all of us can afford to buy new books every day." She's in a foul mood, not least because the roof in her house is leaking badly (again) and one of her friends tried to give her a shrivelled flower which 'he knew perfectly well I was allergic to'. Still, from what she _says_, she accepted it and waited till he was out of sight before chucking it into a miserable bush where 'it would turn into fertiliser'.

That guy's an idiot anyway. I would know, he was the one I beat up years ago for attempting to steal my then-girlfriend. Snivelling creep.

"Stop complaining if you want me to help you," I retort, wiping my hands on my shirt.

"Well in case you haven't noticed, _I'm_ helping you with _yours_ too, and there doesn't seem to be a problem with dirt."

I resist the urge to throttle her, mostly because she puts up adequately with my temper, which can be volatile. But I've always known where to draw the line.

"Cato?" her voice cuts through my line of thought.

"What?" I grunt.

"The reaping's next week." Her voice has changed, is softer now, different from what I'm used to hearing from her.

"I know," I say, surprised. I forget my annoyance momentarily. "I've been counting the days."

There's a faraway look in her eyes that I have hardly ever seen before. "You would do something like that." There is no malice in her voice.

I stare at her, puzzled, not entirely comfortable with this sudden change in behaviour. "All right," I reply uncertainly. I am getting a very bad feeling about this. She looks almost_dreamy,_ which is not a good state to be in.

Just then, her face clears and her gaze sharpens. "You'd better pray damn hard that you win, Gronson," she snaps suddenly. "I have a feeling it's not going to be easy, even for you."

She snatches up her book from under my arms and thrusts mine back at me.

"Don't get complacent," she shoots at me before storming out of the room. I can hear her shutting the back door harder than usual.

I am nothing short of stunned at the current situation. _What the hell?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is a bit of a filler. But I was wondering what he would think if he was forced to kill a friend. No doubt he would do it, but maybe he'd feel squeamish and awful about it - I dunno. Haha, please review :)**


	5. Chapter 5

EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Saturday

I am filled with anticipation, to the point of delirium. Nothing, besides the reaping, interests me and hardly anyone holds my attention. Food is gulped down without much thought and I am unable to sustain a conversation with anyone, not even my mother.

My trainer has forbidden me to do any physically strenuous activity today. He says that I'll have plenty of time for it in the arena, if I do get picked. In response, I shoot him a scornful look. It's not like _he_ knows anything.

So to keep my mind off my own, inevitable victory, I imagine what the other players will be like. There will be twenty-three other tributes. Hopefully there will be at least one who presents something of a challenge, or the Games will be monotonously tiresome.

There will be the usual pathetic, scrawny lot. Of course, I shall team up with the other tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4, and together we will hunt them down and crush them. I have high expectations of those from aforementioned districts, but they should be dispatched with little difficulty once they have outlived their usefulness.

Perhaps there will be two or three players who have spirit and skill from the other districts. They will be harder to track down, seeing as they don't often form alliances and thus travel lighter. But the disadvantages of being alone outweigh the advantages, and if it comes down to a one-to-one fight, I can, and will slaughter them.

Of course, there will be the stupid ones. Those are the people who fall asleep at places where it's easy to find them, or light fires at the wrong times. I have no sympathy whatsoever for them. In the arena, it is, and forever will be, survival of the fittest. Idiots are definitely not the fittest, and thus unfit to live.

There might be a couple of loose cannons, but at the moment I can't think anymore. An image of the big glass ball filled with little slips of paper keeps popping up in my head. In response, my stomach twists into knots which isn't exactly uncomfortable, but not pleasant either.

"_Cato Gronson," the woman announces._

My fists clench, and my lips involuntarily curl into a smile.

And if the woman said any other name, to hell with all inhibitions and hesitation. I would hurtle forward to volunteer, faster than a shrimp running away from a bully. No one else would get my place, my right, my _entitlement_.

I deserve this. I have trained for this all my life. I have prepared tirelessly for these glorious weeks, and the ultimate thing which has kept me going is this scene which I have imagined, in which I feel the weight of the crown on my brow, with the huge crowd cheering and chanting my name. The pride would well up in my chest…

… And I would be content.

-:-

She looks up, sees me and gives a nod in greeting.

I grunt in reply.

Her anger from the week before has dissipated. Now, it seems that she is treating everything I do with indifference. It irked me at first, but today I ignore it like how I ignore everything else.

"What're you doing here?" she asks.

I stare blankly at her. "I don't know."

She blinks. "Then tell me when you figure it out."

Silence descends upon us.

One minute passes…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Five…

When she speaks again, her voice is neutral. "Have you figured it out?"

"No," I reply honestly.

"Do you want my opinion?"

"Go ahead."

She clears her throat. "Well, I think you're currently almost at the point of hyperventilation, so excited you are for tomorrow. The ability to form long sentences has deserted you for that reason, and obsessing over the reaping makes your stomach churn, so you've come over, hoping for some form of distraction." She pauses to take a breath, then continues, "And I can tell you that I have no idea how to drag you out of _this_ bog."

I scoff, then realise something. "How do you know it made my stomach churn?"

She doesn't miss a beat. "I've known you for more than ten years."

I scoff again, and go back to daydreaming. At least I know that _she_ peels the cuticle on her index fingers when she's nervous. She's peeling it now, on the right hand.

"Are you scared or something?" I ask, against my better judgement.

She surveys me thoughtfully. "A little," she admits.

I fix my gaze on her, not bothering to ask the obvious question.

"I'm not going to tell you," she says coldly.

Exasperation, magnified all the more by my current state of mind, makes me sigh and shrug my shoulders with rather more force than necessary. I resume my fantasies, then realise I have a question for her.

I look up and see her staring out of her room window. It's not so much a window actually, than a hole in a wall. But it's functional. Sunlight is streaming in, enveloping her face with a warm glow. And I am struck by the sorrowful look on her face. I have never seen her look like this before. It's almost as if she's going to _cry_.

She's stopped peeling her cuticles. Instead, her hands are clenched on her lap. I'm quite sure when they unclench, there are going to be some deep marks on her palms. And I wonder why she's so upset.

She notices me staring at her and turns back to face me. She doesn't say anything, just looks at me in a stricken manner. We stare at each other for a long while, each unsure of what to say, both unwilling to look away, yet uncomfortable with continuing.

Finally, I reach forward. She doesn't flinch, but her eyes narrow just a fraction. I don't break my gaze as I lift up one of her clenched fists and try to prise it open as gently as possible. Her fingers refuse to yield at first, but slowly, when I persist, loosen and I am able to separate her fingertips from her palm.

I was right. There are four, deep crescent-shaped marks on her palm. I finally end the staring match and observe them for a few moments, before placing her hand back onto her lap.

"It's not exactly comfortable to keep on doing that," I say quietly.

She exhales slowly. For once, she doesn't shoot back a retort. A wistful look crosses her face, then is gone as fast as it came.

"Do you remember," she says softly, "the day I asked you what the meaning of glory was?"

I usually have no patience with such sentimental nonsense, and I know she doesn't either, but today I nod and say yes.

"Then do you remember what the definition of glory is?"

I vaguely know what it is, but the exact definition eludes me. I tell her that.

"Do you want the definition?"

Wouldn't hurt to hear it again. I nod.

She defines it. And I lean forward to flick at her arm, joking about how she could memorise the whole stupid thing.

A smile crosses her face, and she says that she simply has more brain capacity than me, a silly little boy.

I snort, get up and say that I really have to get going. She nods and says, "See you tomorrow." I've forgotten the question I'd wanted to ask, but it was a trivial one anyway, so to hell with it.

As I leave, I realise that for a few glorious minutes there, I'd managed to block out all my strong emotions about the coming day. And it felt pleasant.

I smile.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The next chapter's going to be about the reaping. Please review :)**


	6. Chapter 6

Don't be dismayed by goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.

_-Richard Bach_

_-:-  
><em>

EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE: Farewell

I sit numbly on the plush chair provided. My parents have just left; they are, in their own words, 'extremely proud'. They hope I will win and carry the reputation of the district well. I believe my mother was tearing up, but I can't be sure. My father was just the picture of parental pride.

I have done it. I have accomplished the first lap and now the victory is that much closer. I remember my stomach clenching when someone else's name was called out; I dimly recall myself lunging forward to volunteer, before any other undeserving person gets his grubby paws on my prize. It was exhilarating, to stand on that platform and be named the male tribute from District 2. The feeling of sheer satisfaction – it still makes me slightly giddy to think about it.

_I am the tribute. _It rings true.

But I can't get complacent. I have been educated on the techniques employed by tributes from other districts, and some may prove to be troublesome. I can't let my guard down. I must keep an eye out for any unusual developments. I mustn't underestimate them. I definitely can't –

Oh, what the hell. What I can't do right now is to think about such things.

Just then, the door swings open and _she_ comes in, her face inscrutable. "Hello," she says.

I nod in return. Then she says something, something which I can't really hear. I think she was asking how I was doing. I don't know. But I nod.

_You idiot,_ I think impatiently. _Ten years you've known me, and that's what you ask? _It sounds unnecessarily hostile, but at the moment I don't really care.

Mumbling from the distance. She never was very good at speaking clearly. _Speak up_. _Speak _ up. Why is she making it so hard for me to hear anything? I stare at her face, her blank, hard face. Her lips are moving, but all I hear are vague sounds in the distance. Is there something wrong with my ears?

"What?" I say out loud.

Her mask of indifference gives way to irritation. "I was asking if you have a strategy," she says exasperatedly.

"Oh."

She frowns. "Cato, are you even hearing anything I say?"

I shoot her a withering look. "I responded, didn't I?"

Her lip curls. "If non-committal grunts are considered _responses_, then yes, perhaps," she says icily.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. A clenching sensation in my stomach is surfacing and I am in no mood to talk. Why does she want to talk so much, then? That silly girl. Why do girls talk so much? All those who I've gone out with before love to talk, love to chatter endlessly, love to discuss _feelings_. It's maddening.

Then I realise she isn't speaking any longer, but regarding me with shrewd eyes. Feeling unusually defiant, I glare back.

I stare fiercely into her eyes, having no intention of being the first to drop my gaze. They're normal-looking eyes, not pretty but not that plain either. Then I watch a gleam of contempt pass over them.

My eyes narrow. But the contempt is gone. She looks away, and I feel a cruel satisfaction. I win this one.

Her finger traces something on her lap, and I watch it disinterestedly. "Well then, Cato," she says mildly, addressing my left foot. "If that's the case, I suppose this is the time to say goodbye?"

"Hmm," I say. "Yes, I suppose so."

She gets up and walks over to me until she's directly in front of me. Although I'm seated, she's only about half a head taller than me - but her shadow sweeps out on her right side and stretches a long way...

When she speaks, her voice is unexpectedly kind. "Goodbye, then," she says. There's a hint of irony in the way she says the words which I almost - _almost, _but not quite - miss. I look up at her sharply and see a small smile playing at the edges of her lips.

"Bye," I say. Then I add, a tad compulsively, "I'll be back."

Her smile widens. "No doubt about that." She shifts slightly and the shadow follows, amplifying the action.

She bends, pats my hand fondly and then straightens up and walks towards the door. The time isn't even up. With a hand on the doorknob, she says in an amiable voice, "I'll see you soon." And it's the sheer, grating _friendliness_ of her tone which provokes me into saying something irritable.

"Wait a minute," I say, my voice sounding suitably annoyed. "Isn't there going to be a lecture of some sort?"

She turns, her face slightly more sombre now. "Lecture?" she asks.

"You know what I'm talking about," I snap.

Her expression is slightly nonplussed as she stares at me, trying to figure out what I'm getting at. A smug feeling arises in my chest; for once, _she's_ doing the guesswork. _She_ can try and rack her brains while I sit back and smirk.

That feeling is quenched when a large smile crosses her face as she lets go of the doorknob then starts to giggle rather hysterically.

"Oh, _Cato_," she says, shaking her head. "Lecture? At this point, the only kind of lecture I can give you is one where I ask you - _beg_ you to spare yourself all that pain and trouble."

I stare at her quizzically. "What?"

"What?" she mimics cruelly.

My annoyance is back. "Now, see here - "

"No, _you_ see," she chuckles. "_You _open your eyes and see what's right in front of you. I daresay it'll do you a lot of good, you know... But you don't. And that's the _point_."

I start to get angry. "What the hell are you on about?" I demand. "You're spouting a load of nonsensical rubbish."

She lets out a snort of laughter. "You can figure that out yourself."

"Fine," I say angrily. "Crazy woman."

"Yes, yes," she says, running a hand through her hair. "Sometimes people can't see past their own noses - I hope you're not one of them." She turns to the door and reaches out towards the doorknob again and twists; the clicking sound is incredibly loud.

"You know Irene?"

I start. Her voice is quietly contained now. "That girl you were with at the food stalls?" I ask cautiously.

"Yes."

"What about her?"

She turns to look at me, her eyes unnaturally bright. "Irene - couldn't see past the end of _her_ nose." She whirls back and pulls the door open.

Then she's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know this was really short, but it's the second last chapter; I didn't really want to put this and the last chapter (which is also relatively short) together. But please review and tell me what you thought about this. :D **

***27/7: Sorry I had to replace this chapter because I realised there were a lot of things missing. I hope you don't mind...  
><strong>


	7. Chapter 7

EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE: The End

I once saw a small boy who fell and scraped his knees badly. He was young – perhaps six or seven years old. His mother immediately picked him up and made gentle, soothing noises while an older girl – his sister, probably – stared at him wide-eyed, surprised, not quite sure what to do. He didn't kick up a fuss or bawl his head off, but tears did spill out of his eyes and he kept saying, "It hurts… it hurts…"

At that time, I was around fourteen years old, and having endured much worse injuries, felt nothing but a slight sense of superiority. What did a few scrapes mean to me? I would never publicly whine about pain, no matter the intensity; my sense of pride is far too strong for that. And while the boy was, perhaps, a little young to express his feelings on the physical injury in greater detail, I felt that I could more eloquently describe that sensation – one which many feared and avoided – which was 'pain'.

I was young… and stupid.

_Pain_… now it gnaws at me relentlessly like those terrible beasts. I cannot fully describe just how it works away at me, just how awful it is. It corrodes my defenses, breaking them down and drawing out my weakness and vulnerability, making me incapable of controlling my own actions. Pain, to me, now, is undefinable, that unknown entity which exists solely to torment me. The words 'it hurts' will never justify this sensation; I long to sever all my nerves, shatter my spine, anything, _anything_ to end this agony.

The beasts are merciless, unthinking, vile creatures. Their teeth are sharp, and their claws sharper. _And their eyes…_

I can't move when I want to. The animals have long since deprived me of the ability to do more than moan and twitch convulsively. They have taken away everything; not just my body, but my chances of victory, my mind, my _glory_. And the worst part is: _I don't care_. It all hurts too much, far too much for me to care.

The pain stretches on for an age. Vague images and blurry memories flash across my mind sporadically, jumbled together at times. Voices are heard in the distance. I don't try to make sense of them; I can't. How long has it been since I was shot by that girl? Days? Weeks? It might even be years. There is no keeping the pain at a distance, it's too much, too confrontational, too overwhelming to ignore. I don't know what the state of my body is – maybe I don't even want to know.

Unbidden, an image of my parents' faces flash across my mind, their proud, joyous faces. They were expecting so much from me. But it doesn't matter now, because in this game, I've lost. And I am going to die.

_I am going to die._ It sounds melodramatic, but I long for it. I want this pain to stop, I want it to end, I want out. No amount of pride, no amount of shame, no amount of ambition is worth this torture.

Their faces are gone. It's all dark now; maybe I can finally get what I long for so desperately. It's dark. The sounds from those slobbering creatures are fading…

No, _no_… It's lightening again. And I can see a face. It's _her_ face. She's staring at me with pity, which is the last thing I want. I don't need it. It doesn't alleviate anything. And yet… is there a hint of smugness in her expression? Is she going to expound on how she was right, how glory is blown out of proportion, how winning doesn't matter? Pathetic. That bitch. **How dare she**.

Then her mouth moves, and it's surprising how lacking in real emotion her voice is. "Glory, Cato, glory," she says placidly. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

I am exhausted. The pain has taken too much out of me, and I am too tired to do anything more than stare blankly at her. She – or rather, the image – doesn't seem to need an answer, though, and the face fades away…

A phrase drifts hazily around my mind. _I'll be back._ Those were the words I'd said to her. But now, it seems, I must swallow them…

I will never meet my parents again, my friends, and I had _promised_. I had said that I would come back. I must keep my word; the vague desire to do so is growing stronger. And the pain doesn't affect me so much now. Does that mean I am healing? I could turn my back on this place, go home and live my life. My limbs are intact, and glory seems, now, to be an abstract concept, distant, not meant to be understood. I once lived for it, yearned for it, but now… the definition means nothing to me.

_Very great praise, honour, or distinction bestowed by common consent._ How many times has glory been defined for me to hear? And I have never realised just how meaningless it is. Honour, praise, distinction, it means nothing when my body is being ripped apart. Something about a game piece comes back to me: _To be shifted and prodded and tortured_…

And then: _People can't see past their own noses. _A sense of agitation rises in me. It doesn't matter now, if I was one of them. It doesn't matter! Irene was one, wasn't she…? She died a little while ago, I can't remember why.

Just then, I realise... and finally accept the situation. I will see everyone again, eventually. Time will pass before that can happen, but that isn't unreasonable.

My thoughts, jumbled together and accompanied by an undercurrent of agony, condense, forming a little ball, a nucleus, containing one very simple idea. And I understand perfectly what it means. _This has to stop_.

When the girl from District Twelve looks down, my mind is set. The pain threatens to obliterate all thought completely, but I cling on to this little idea with more determination than I have ever felt before in my life.

_Please, _I try to say. My mouth moves, but I don't know if any sound comes out. _Please…_

I am begging. I am pleading with this hateful girl, whom I marked out from the very beginning, to help me. It doesn't even hurt whatever shred of pride I have left to do it. I just require this one, tiny service. I need it more than anything else in the world, more than anything I ever needed in the past. _Please. _It's vitally important. _Please._

_Please…_

She obliges. The arrow whistles towards me, past all those creatures, strikes my skull –

And it all ends.

_**Fin**_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to my reviewers bluespades, Radio Free Death (I'll fix my mistakes eventually, thanks for the feedback :)), Anla'shok, dadeedoo as well as the guest reviewer! :) It's wonderful to read all your comments. ^.^**

**So this is the last chapter. The definition of glory was taken from dictionary . reference . com. It's taken longer than I expected to finish this story, but it's now done (right before I dive into my revision, urgh) and I hope you liked it! Please review :)**


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